CHAPTER VII. MISS PEPPER'S LETTER.
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MRS. CHURCHILL was better, and Georgie was
talking again of going to Chicago, and had promised
to find Edna and render her any service in her
power. Roy had written to Edna at last, but no answer had
come to him, and he was beginning to wonder at her silence
and to feel a little piqued, when one day early in December
Russell brought him a letter mailed in Canandaigua and directed
to his mother in a bold, angular handwriting, which
stamped the writer as a person of striking originality and
strongly marked character. In his mother's weak state it
would not do to excite her, and so Roy opened the letter
himself and glanced at the signature:
“Yours to command,
“Jerusha Amanda Pepper.”
And that worthy woman, who rejoiced in so euphonious a
name, wrote from her own fireside in Richmond to Mrs.
Churchill, as follows:
“Richmond, Allen's Hill,
“Ontario Co., N.Y., Dec. 4th, 18—.
“Mrs. Churchill:
“Dear Madam—I've had it on my mind to write to you
ever since that terrible disaster by which you were deprived
of a son, who was taken to eternity without ever the chance
for one last prayer or cry to be saved. Let us hope he had
made his prayers beforehand and had no need for them. He
had been baptized, I suppose, as I hear you are a church
woman, but are you High or Low? Everything to my mind
depends upon that. I hold the Low to be purely
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Evangelical, while the High,—well, I will not harrow up your feelings;
what I want to say is, that I do not and never have for
a single moment upheld my niece, or rather my great niece,
Edna, in what she has done. I took her from charity when
her father died, although he was higher than I in his views,
and we used to hold many a controversial argument on apostolic
succession, for he was a clergyman and my sister's son.
His wife, who set up to be a lady and taught music in our
select school, died when Edna was born, and I believe went
to Heaven, though we never agreed as to the age when children
should be confirmed, nor about that word regeneration
in the baptismal service. I hold it's a stumbling block and
ought to be struck out, while she said I did not understand
its import, and confounded it with something else; but that's
neither here nor there. Lucy was a good woman and made
my nephew a good wife, though she would keep a girl, which
I never did.
“When William died, twelve years ago, I took Edna and
have been a mother to her ever since, and made her learn
the catechism and creed, and thoroughly indoctrinated her
with my views, and sent her to Sunday-school, and always
gave her something from the Christmas-tree, and insisted
upon her keeping all the fasts, and had her confirmed, and
she turned out High Church after all, and ran away with your
son. But I wash my hands of her now. Such a bill as I
have got to pay the teachers in the seminary for her education!
It was understood that after she graduated she was to
stay there and teach to pay for her schooling, and what does
she do but run away and leave me with a bill of four hundred
dollars! Not that I can't pay it, for I can. I've four
times four hundred laid up in Mr. Beals's bank, and like an
honest woman, I took it out and paid the bill and have got
the receipt in my prayer-book, and I showed it to her, for
she's been here; yes, actually had the cheek to come right
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into my house on Thanksgiving-day, when I was at church;
and a good sermon we had, too, if our new minister did bow
in the creed, which rather surprised me, after telling him, as
I did only the day before, that I looked upon that ceremony
as a shred, at least, if not a rag of Popery. He lost a dollar
by that bow, for I had twelve shillings of milk-money I calculated
to give him, but when he bowed over so low right at
me as if he would say, `You see, Miss Pepper, I'm not to be
led by the nose,' I just put on my fifty cents, and let it go
at that.
“The stage came in while I was at church; but I never
thought of Edna till I got home and smelled the turkey I
had left in the oven more than I should have smelled it if
somebody hadn't hurried up the fire; and there was the
vegetables cooking, and the table set for two; and Edna, in
her black dress, stood before the fire with her hands held
tight together, and a look on her face as if she felt she'd no
business there after all she had done.
“`Edna Browning,' I said, `what are you doing here, and
how dare you come after disgracing me so?'
“Then she said something about its being the only place
she had to go to, and my being lonely eating dinner alone
Thanksgiving-day, and began to be hystericky, of course.
“If there's anything I pride myself on more than another,
it's firmness and presence of mind, and I am happy to say I
maintained them both, though I did come near giving way,
when I saw how what I said affected her.
“I told her that to get into any family the way she did into
yours was mean and disgraceful, and said she was to blame
for the young man's death; and asked who was to remunerate
me for that four hundred dollars I had to pay for her
schooling; and who was to pay for all the trinkets at Greenough's
in Canandaigua, and if she was not ashamed to wear
a wedding-ring a stranger had to pay for.
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“Up to this point, I must say Edna had not manifested
much, if any feeling, and I really felt as if she was hardened
and did not care; but when I spoke of the ring something
about her made my flesh creep, and told me I had gone far
enough.
“There came a kind of pale-gray look all over her face,
and a steel-gray look in her eye, as she took off the ring and
put it away in her purse, saying, in a queer, low voice:
“`You are right, Aunt Jerry. I am a murderess, and I
ought not to wear this ring until I have paid for it myself,
and I never will.'
“She did not eat a mouthful of dinner, but with that same
look in her eyes sat staring out at a blighted rose-tree just
opposite the window, and when I asked what she saw, she
answered:
“`My future life.'
“And that was all she said till the dishes were washed and
it began to get dark. I was going to light a candle, but she
turned kind of fierce like toward me and said:
“`Don't, Aunt Jerry,—don't light that candle. I like the
darkness. I want to talk to you, and I can do it better if I
don't see your face.'
“'Twas a queer notion, but I humored her, and she told me
about your son, and took all the blame to herself, and said
she was sorry, and told me of the money Mr. Leighton sent,
and how much she kept, and that she was going to pay it
back.
“`And if I live I'll pay you that four hundred dollars too,'
she said; and her voice was so strange that I felt shivery like,
and wished the candle was lighted. `I have sent Mr. Leighton
my note for the first two hundred. I shall send him another
to-morrow,' she went on, `and give you one too.'
“And sure enough she did, and I have her `promise to
pay four hundred dollars with interest from date,' so that
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makes a debt of $800 she's saddled herself with, and she
only seventeen. And upon my word I believe she'll do it!
She is a little bit of a girl, but there's a sight of grit and vim
wrapped up in her, and she seemed to have grown into a
woman all at once, so that, mad as I was, I liked her better
than ever I did before.
“She staid all night, and told me that Mrs. Dana in
Chicago died suddenly from paralysis, and the husband
asked her to be Mrs. Dana 2d, and take care of his little
children and a baby of six months, and his wife only dead
two weeks. That started her from there, and where she is
now I know no more than the dead. She left me next
morning, bag and baggage, and when I asked where she was
going, she said, `to earn my living.'
“Then I asked if she had friends, and she said, `None
but God,' and added after a minute, `Yes, one more, but
he can't help me.'
“Who she meant I don't know, nor where she's gone.
I tried to make her stay, but she said, `No, I am my own
mistress now. Marriage has made me that, if not my age,
and I am going away;' and she went in the stage, and after
she was gone I sat down and cried, for I felt I was a little
too hard on her, and I could not forget the look on her
face as I came in from church, nor the look as I talked to
her about the ring and killing her husband. I have no idea
where she's gone, but feel sure she will keep out of harm.
She's been well brought up, and though some of her notions
do not suit me, she is thoroughly indoctrinated in the truth,
and will come out all right; so my advice is to let her alone
for a spell at any rate, and see what she'll do.
“My object in writing this to you is to give you some
little insight into the character of the family you are connected
with by marriage, and to let you know I don't take
my niece's part, although it is natural that I should find
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more excuse for her than you, who probably think it a disgrace
to be connected with the Peppers. But, if you choose
to inquire hereabouts, you'll find that I am greatly respected
and looked up to in the church, and if you ever come this
way give me a call, and I will do the same by you. If you
feel like it, write to me, if not, not.
“Wishing you all consolation in your son's death,
“Yours to command,
“Jerusha Amanda Pepper.”
Roy read this letter with mingled emotions of disgust and
indignation, and finally of tolerance and even kindly feelings,
toward the writer, who had commenced with being so hard
upon her niece, but had softened as she progressed, and at
last had spoken of her with a good deal of interest and even
sympathy.
“Poor little thing,” he called Edna now, and he longed
to take her up in his arms as he would a child, and comfort
her. From the tenor of the first part of Miss Pepper's
letter, he could imagine, or thought he could, just how hard,
and grim, and stern the woman was, and just how dreary
and cheerless Edna's life had been with her.
“I don't wonder she married the first one that offered,”
he said, and then as he recalled the man Dana, who had
asked Edna to be his wife, he felt a flesh of resentment
tinge his cheeks, and his fists clenched with a desire to
knock the impudent Dana down. “And it is to such insults
as these she is liable at any time; fighting her way
alone in the cold, harsh world, though, by Jove! I don't blame
her for leaving that Pepper-corn, goading and badgering
her about the ring, and murdering Charlie. I wouldn't have
spent so much as the night there after that; I'd have slept
in the dog-kennel first.”
Roy did not stop to consider that no such luxurious
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appendage as a dog-kennel was to be found on Miss Pepper's
premises. He only remembered her cruelty to Edna,
and the “pale-gray look which came into her face,” and the
“steel-gray look in her eye,” as she took off her wedding
ring, and then sat looking out at the blighted rose-tree, seeing
there her future life. Roy was not much given to
poetry, or sentiment, or flowery speeches, but he saw the
connection between Edna and the blighted tree, and knew
why it should have had a greater fascination for her than her
aunt's rasping tirade.
“She is a blighted rose herself,” he said, “or rather a
blighted bud, only seventeen, as much a girl as she ever
was, a wife of a few hours, a widow turned out into the
world to shirk for herself with an assumed debt of, let me
see, that two hundred to me, four hundred more to that
miserly old sanctimonious Pepper, prating about High
Church and Low, and arrogating to herself all the piety of
both parties, just because she stands up straight as a rail
during the creed, and believes Lorenzo Dow as divinely
appointed to preach as St. Peter himself; that makes six
hundred, besides that bill in Canandaigua, which Pepper says
she's resolved to pay. Eight hundred dollars. Before she
gets all that paid there'll be a grayer look in her eyes and
on her poor little face than there was when she looked at
the blighted rose-tree. And here I have more money than
I know what to do with. I'll go for her at once, go this
very day,” and forgetting his lame leg in his excitement,
Roy sprang to his feet, but a sharp twinge of pain brought
him to his senses, and to his chair again. “I can't go.
Confound it. I'm a cripple,” he said: then, as he remembered
that he did not know where Edna was, he groaned
aloud, and blamed himself severely for having indulged in
his old habit of procrastination, and so deferred the writing
of his letter to Edna until it was too late.
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For of course she never got it. If she had, it might have
changed her whole line of conduct. At least, she would
have known that she had two friends, one Roy, and the
other the one she had mentioned to her aunt as powerless
to help her. Who was he? for she distinctly said he.
“Not that ass of a Dana sure, else she had not fled from
him and his offer,” and with his sound leg Roy kicked a
footstool as the combined representative of the audacious
Dana and Miss Jerusha Pepper. He was glad that woman
was no nearer relative to Edna than great aunt, and so was
his mother, for after his ebullition of anger was over, he decided
to take the letter to her, and tell her what Edna had
written to himself.
As Georgie was not present, there was no counter influence
at work, and Roy's voice and manner told plainly
which way he leaned.
In this state of things, Mrs. Churchill went with the tide,
and cried softly, and said there was more to Edna than she
had supposed, and hoped Roy would never take a cent of
pay, and suggested his sending a check for four hundred
dollars to that abominable Pepper woman, who thought to
make friends with them by taking sides against her niece!
“She's a perfect old shrew,—a Shylock, you may be
assured, and will take every farthing of principal and interest.
Write to her now, and have it done with.”
“And suppose I do,” said Roy; “what warrant have we
that this woman will not exact it just the same of Edna, who
has no means of knowing that we have paid it?”
“I know she will not do that,” Mrs. Churchill replied.
“Disgusting as her letter is, I think it shows her to be
honest, at least. At all events, I should test her.”
And so Roy wrote to Miss Pepper, inclosing his check
for the four hundred dollars, and asking, in return, for her
receipt, and Edna's note. His letter was not a very
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cordial one, and shrewd Miss Jerusha detected its spirit, and
sent back the check forthwith, telling Roy that she could
see through a millstone any time; that it was kind in him
to offer to pay Edna's debts, but she did not see the necessity
of insulting her with a suspicion of unfair dealing with
her own flesh and blood. She guessed he didn't know her
standing in the church, and had better inquire next time.
As for Edna, he need not worry about her. She (Miss
Pepper) did not intend to harm her. She only wanted to
see how much grit there was in the girl; and he would find
sometime, perhaps, that a Pepper could be as generous as a
Leighton.
Roy could not complain of the last sentiment, for he
had himself been conscious of a desire to let Edna alone for
a time, and see what was in her. But he did not feel so
now, and if he had known where she was, he would have
gone for her at once and brought her home to Leighton.
But he did not know. The last intelligence he had of her
was received in a letter mailed at Albany, two days after the
date of Miss Pepper's effusion. In this letter, Edna wrote
that she had disposed of her watch and coral for one hundred
and fifty dollars, one hundred of which she sent to Roy,
together with a second note for the remaining hundred due
for the jewelry.
“You will forgive me, Mr. Leighton, for not sending the
whole. I would do so, but I must have something to begin
my new life with. I don't exactly know what I shall do,
but think I shall teach drawing. I have some talent for
that, as well as music, and my voice is not a bad one, they
said at Canandaigua. As fast as I earn anything, I shall
send you a part of it. Mr. Leighton, I have another debt
besides yours, and perhaps you won't mind if I try to pay
that as soon as possible. It will only make your time a
little longer, and I do so much want that other one off my
mind.”
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“I don't wonder she does,” Roy said, as he finished reading
the letter to his mother, who with himself began to feel
a deep interest in this “brave little woman,” as Roy called
her aloud.
“She writes a very fair hand and expresses herself well,”
Mrs. Churchill said, examining the letter, and wondering
where Edna was. “We have done our duty at all events,”
she added, “and I do not think anybody could require
more of us.”
Roy did not tell all he thought. It would not have
pleased his mother if he had, and so he kept silent, while she
flattered herself that they had done every possible thing
which could be expected of them. Roy had tried to pay
Edna's debts, and that he had not done so was not his fault,
while she harbored no unkindness now toward the poor girl,
she said to Georgie Burton, who came over in the afternoon
to say good-by, as she was going to Chicago at last. Roy
would never have told Georgie of Edna's affairs, but his
mother had no concealments from her, and repeated the
whole story.
“Of course you have done your duty, and I would not
give it any more thought, but try to get well and be yourself
again,” Georgie said, kissing her friend, tenderly, and telling
her of her projected journey.
Mrs. Churchill was very sorry to have Georgie go away,
and Roy was, after a fashion, sorry too, and he went down
to the carriage with her, and put her in, and drew the Affghan
across her lap, and told her how much he should miss her,
and that she must make her absence as brief as possible.
“Remember me to your brother,” he said, as he finally
offered her his hand; then after a moment he added, “I did
hope to have sent some message direct to our poor little girl.
Maybe you can learn something of her present whereabouts.
I am most anxious to know where she is.”
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He held Georgie's hand all the time he was saying this,
and Georgie's eyes were very soft and pitiful in their expression
as she bade him good-by, and promised “to find out all
she could about the poor, dear child.”
Holmes, Mary Jane, 1825-1907 [1872], Edna Browning, or, The Leighton homestead: a novel. (S. Low, Son & Co., London) [word count] [eaf595T].
